Red Skye at Night (5 page)

But all those fanciful notions assume that I might actually take him up on his bizarre proposal. And if I did, would he actually ever pay up? He’d find some reason not to, I’m convinced of it. I suppose I could have asked for the money in advance, but who pays that sort of cash out to a stranger on a whim? No, the whole idea is ludicrous.

I get up, my eyes dry and prickling from lack of sleep. I study my face in the bathroom mirror as I clean my teeth. He said I was pretty…

Eight thirty that morning sees me once more pushing the revolving door at the Queens Hotel and loping across the corporate Axminster in the direction of the hotel restaurant. I’m here to tell him he’s crackers and to count me out. And because I like bacon sandwiches.

I spot my passenger from yesterday as soon as I enter the hotel dining room. He’s seated at a table laid for two, chewing thoughtfully on a piece of toast. I’m relieved that he’s selected a table close to the entrance—I would have hated to have to limp right across the dining room with his eyes on me the whole way. He smiles as soon as he sees me, just at the same time as the restaurant manager bears down on me from across the restaurant.

“Good morning. May I take your room number, please?”

“Oh, yes, I, right…” I’m not sure how to explain that I’m just here for the bacon butties, but in the event I don’t have to. Mr. McLeod comes to my rescue.

“That’s okay. This lady is my guest. Room number one-two-one.”

The manager seems perfectly satisfied with this explanation for my presence in his dining room. He makes a note on his clipboard and melts into the background once more. Mr. McLeod ushers me to his table and seats me opposite his place.

“Tea or coffee? We have both.” His smile this morning is not so much polite as dazzling. Somehow in my overnight musings I managed to convince myself that Mr. McLeod was in fact just mildly attractive, a pretty boy with more money than sense. Or perhaps a rogue out to con me somehow. These notions are dispelled by his gorgeous blue eyes, and the dimple I now note in his cheek as he passes me an empty cup.

“Coffee please.” I watch as he pours, then help myself to hot milk and a lump of brown sugar.

I wrap my hands around my cup and draw a deep breath. There’s no escaping the fact that my host is every bit as devastating this morning as he was yesterday, if not more so. His clothes today are still expensive, but casual. His jeans are dark blue, his T-shirt a bright white. The Rado watch is understated and elegant. I notice that he wears it with the face on the inside of his left wrist. His eyes are without doubt his most compelling feature, a deep azure, ringed with lashes that are frankly wasted on a man. He watches me closely as I gather my wits, ready to put a final stop to this misguided scheme of his.

“So, are we going then?” He cocks his head to one side, his smile faintly mischievous as he leans back in his chair.

“What?”

He picks up the toast rack and offers me a piece. “I don’t mean immediately. There’s no rush. You’ve time to finish your breakfast. The wholewheat is nice. There’s marmalade too.”

I stare at him, then, “What about my bacon sandwich?”

“Ah, right, of course.” He gives a discreet flick of his finger, a movement that if I did it would perhaps startle a fly from my sleeve, but Mr. McLeod succeeds in summoning the manager back to our table. He turns to issue his instructions. “My guest would like a bacon sandwich, please. And I think, perhaps, an egg to go with it…” He lifts one of his eyebrows again in inquiry.

I nod. After all, why not?

“Yes, an egg. And mushrooms, beans, tomatoes. I’ll tell you what… Why don’t you just bring the full works and we’ll go from there, okay?”

The manager scribbles a note on his pad. “Of course, sir. Would you like more coffee? Juice?”

“Yes, juice, I think. Orange okay for you?” Again he fixes me with that deep blue stare, and I nod wordlessly. “Orange then. And yes, more coffee, please.”

The manager scribbles more notes then rushes away to do Mr. McLeod’s bidding. I’m starting to observe that he has a way about him that seems to demand obedience. Hell, I’m here, aren’t I? But not for long.

“I can’t drive you to Scotland. The whole idea is crazy. I’m sorry, but the answer is no.” There, it had to be said.

Mr. McLeod simply watches me, his gaze cool and assessing. “I’d be prepared to pay more, if that would convince you.”

I shake my head, my expression one of quiet determination. Well, that’s the look I’m going for. “It’s not the money. You already offered way too much.”

“I see. Well then?”

“I don’t understand it. Why do you suddenly want to go to Skye, of all places?”

“Let me explain, if that would set your mind at rest. I came to Leeds expecting to be tied up in business meetings for the next four days at least. I’d already decided to go to Scotland if I could get away afterwards, sometime next week perhaps. My meetings were canceled, I got the email while I was in your taxi yesterday, so decided to bring my other plans forward. Asking you to drive me was an impulse, I admit that, but it isn’t now. I’ve thought more about it, and the more I think, the more I like the idea. A lot. I like it even better now I’m seeing you again. Please say you’ll come.”

“Why would you want to go by car when you could fly or take a train? You could be there by this evening.”

“I already said, I don’t fancy a train and I’ve had enough of flying to last me a while. I don’t need to get there fast. I’m in no hurry. And my route is rather complicated. I want to go to Skye, but via Orkney. It would be just too much hassle to make the trip by train. It makes sense to do it by car.” He leans back, turning his million-watt smile on me again. “It’s simple enough, I find myself unexpectedly with some time to kill and I fancy a road trip. I’d like to see a bit of Britain, and I’d very much like you to come with me.”

“Why Orkney? And why me?”

“You drive. I don’t. My grandmother came from Orkney. I’m rediscovering my roots.”

“Lots of people drive. What’s in Skye?”

“More roots. And they’re not all as pretty as you.”

“What?”

“All those other people who drive. They’re nowhere near as lovely as you.”

Now I know he’s lost it. Or he’s taking the piss. “Don’t be ridiculous, I’m not pretty. Or lovely. I’m not even good company.”

He doesn’t answer that, just cocks one eyebrow and smiles at me. As for me, I’ve said my piece so I have nothing to add. Our stand-off is interrupted by the arrival of a brisk young waitress with my monster of a breakfast. She places it in front of me, unloads a fresh pot of coffee and two glasses of orange juice then leaves us to it.

“I can’t eat all this.”

“You should. You need building up. You’re way too thin.”

“I’m fine. Really. Can’t we share this?”

“Come with me. To Skye.”

“No.”

“What will you do with the extra cash you’ll be earning?”

“That’s none of your business.”

“Ah, so you
will
be earning it then?”

“I said no.”

“You meant yes.”

“If you’re one of those creeps who thinks a woman means yes when she says no, I’m leaving now.” I reach for my bag on the floor by my feet. Mr. McLeod leans across the table to place his hand on my arm. The gesture is gentle, non-threatening, but it stops me instantly. I gaze at him.

“If a woman says no to me and means it, I’ll respect that. And her. But you don’t mean it. You want to come. Admit that much.” He tilts his head to one side, his expression now serious.

It’s true I could do with the cash. But still…
I’m at a loss. I have no idea what to say now so I settle for saying nothing.

“What’s your name?” It’s a relief when Mr. McLeod breaks the silence.

“My name?”

“Yes. We didn’t introduce ourselves properly last night. You know who I am, I signed my note to you. So, you are…?”

I suppose there’s no harm in telling him, though I’d dispute that I know who he is. “Hope Shepherd.”

“It suits you. So, Miss Shepherd—or can I call you Hope?”

I nod, the action curt. No reason why not to be on first name terms, I suppose. Mr. McLeod—or should that be Harry?—continues, “Hope, do you fancy a little adventure? A few days, that’s all, then you can come back here with money in your pocket.”

He grins and the dimple goes into overdrive. Really, that face could stop traffic. The pity of it is that he knows exactly what he’s about, trying to seduce me with a stunning smile and talk of adventures. Worse still, he’s succeeding. I find myself actually wishing I could go with him, that all this was not some whimsical fancy. I cast around for some reasonable excuse to call a halt to this madness.

“What if you don’t pay up afterwards? Or if you change your mind halfway there? What if my car breaks down? Would you want a refund?”

His delighted expression lights up the entire restaurant, or so it seems to me. “Ah, I knew it. Right, here’s the deal. I’ll pay you in advance, a non-refundable fee. The money is yours whatever happens. Your car looked sound enough to me. I’m prepared to take that risk.”

I stare at him, incredulous. “You have eight thousand pounds in cash? On you?”

“No, but I can get it paid into your bank by the time you finish your breakfast. Do you have a bank card with you?”

As if on autopilot, I fish around in my bag for my wallet and pull out my debit card. I hand it to him. Mr. McLeod already has his iPad fired up. He taps the screen and waits a few moments for the website to load. He glances at me from time to time, under his lowered brows, as he keys my bank details into his system. A few minutes pass, then he hands the card back to me.

“There’s sure to be an ATM in the station next door. Finish your breakfast, then go and check your balance. You’ll find you’re eight thousand pounds richer. So, will that do you?”

I nod, and the deal is struck. The money’s been paid, I’m committed now.
Oh shit!

“Your eggs are getting cold.” Harry gestures to my still more or less untouched plate. I pick up my knife and fork then make a start.

Twenty minutes later, Mr. McLeod has established that I’m to call him Harry, which he is at pains to inform me is short for Harrison, not Harold, and he’s also set me straight on my assumption that he’s American.

“I’m Canadian. I live in Winnipeg. My family own an online security business and I head up new product development. I’m here to negotiate a franchise with a UK firm based in Leeds but their CEO has gone down with food poisoning. That was the message I got from his office yesterday. He should be fit to do the deal by next week, and I suppose I could have gone back to Canada and returned later. But I’m here, I always intended to incorporate the trip to Scotland on this visit, so why not do it now?”

Why not indeed? And it seems I’ve gone from being determined to scotch this madness to actually joining in. Our plates are emptied, more or less, and the coffee almost drunk. Time to get on with it.

Harry offers me the last of the toast and marmalade. I decline, stuffed.

“So, we’re done here then. Finish your coffee, then go check your bank balance. You’ll need a road atlas too, unless you already have one. You should be able to pick one of those up at the station as well.”

“I don’t need a map, I have my satnav.”

He grins at me. “Call me old-fashioned. I like to plan my trips the traditional way. I’ll pay for the map. Chalk it up as the first of your expenses.”

“It’s not the money. And if I’m driving then I plan the route.” I paste my best assertive face on and hold his gaze. This feels important to me, though I am uncertain why it should.

He regards me, his expression inscrutable. I squirm, though I couldn’t say why. He says nothing to create this impression, but I find myself believing that Harry McLeod does not take kindly to being argued with, and that he’s used to calling the shots. Well, not this time. Not in my car.

“We’ll plan it together. Agreed?” He holds out his hand in a gesture of conciliation. I feel oddly victorious as I take it and shake.

“When will you want to leave?” I gather up my bag from beside my feet and stand up. The waitress is hovering, clearly anxious to clear away the wreckage of our breakfast.

Harry gets to his feet as well. “Now. As soon as you get back from checking your bank and buying that map we need. I was already intending to check out this morning so I just need to go up to my suite and grab my bags. I’ll meet you at the hotel entrance in, say…ten minutes?”

“Ten minutes? I can’t be ready to go in ten minutes.” I stare at him, not for the first time thinking that he’s quite deranged.

“Oh? Why not?”

I sigh and try for patience. “Well, I don’t have any stuff with me, for one thing. It’s all right for you, but I don’t have a case already packed upstairs. And for another, I need to— I need to…tell people.”

“Who do you need to tell?”

Who indeed?
I live alone and, as a freelance driver, I work the hours I choose. Even so. “What about my things? I’ll need to go home and collect some clothes and, and…”

“Yeah, I get that. So we’ll detour to your place, you can pack what you need for the time we’ll be away, then we head off.”

“I’m not taking you to my flat. For all I know you might be a kinky weirdo who chops people up with an ax.”

He laughs out loud. “Hey, I’ll put my hands up to the kink but I swear to you, I don’t have an ax. Not so much as a pocketknife on me.”

I’m confused, not sure how much of this is joking and where he might be serious. The remark about being kinky has not escaped me. I suppose my doubtful expression gives him pause, and he seems inclined to offer further reassurance.

“You’ll be safe with me, Hope. I won’t harm you, I promise you that. Do you believe me?” His expression is deadly serious, no hint of laughter now.

For some insane reason I think I do believe him, though I have no idea why. At a loss, I say the first thing that comes into my head. “I don’t even know you.”

Harry just grins. “Sure you do, honey. We just went through all that. If it makes you feel better, though, I’ll wait outside your flat. It’ll give me time to study the map.”